Dawn in Ithilien
by Losseniaiel
Summary: Éowyn reflects on Faramir as he sleeps one morning in Ithilien. Pure fluff.


**Dawn in Ithilien**

By Losseniaiel

**Disclaimers:** These characters are Tolkien's not mine. I'm only borrowing them and will return them, although Faramir may have some scuff marks.

**Rating:** R.

**Summary:** Éowyn reflects on Faramir as he sleeps one morning in Ithilien. Pure fluff.

He sleeps beside me, one hand curled under his head, the other flung out to rest on my hip. He looks so peaceful now, shorn of the worries which beset him when he wakes. He was never bred to this task, this office he holds, and he fears that he may fail, even as his brother did; but I know that he was born to it, that the City lives in his blood, and he will never do her ill. This cheers me, for I hope that some similar protection is bestowed on me.

Dear Eru, I never wished for protection, not even from that foul fiend Grima, for I am a Shield-maiden of the Mark, and the descendant of kings. But as I look upon him now, what is the blood of kings compared to our love? What is battle compared to this rapture? I accept the safety I would have scorned, and in return I shall always protect him.

Faramir's black hair is splayed out across the fine linen pillow in thick tendrils. As I reach out to touch it with tentative fingers, it is warm and soft, smelling of herbs dancing in the sunlight. Shifting slightly, I pull a strand to my lips, breathing in the intoxicating scent.

How close I came to losing this! In what peril I put my happiness! With what folly did I regard my future! I could have passed by on the desolate road, my eyes firmly averted, and never seen what I could have had. I thought that I loved Aragorn Elessar, but my devotion to him never was a fraction of this. I feel for my husband what Arwen feels for hers. I love him not for because he is great and noble, although he is, but because he is pure and true, and for the essence of his being, which no words of mortal men can describe. I clutch him close, fearing that he will evaporate with the morning mists on the grasslands. 

The sensation of solid muscle, and long, clean limbs, against my skin reassures me. He does not wake, lost in the land of dreams where even I cannot follow him, but his sleeping hands pull me closer still, resting against the small of my back, making small circles beneath which my skin tingles in delight. Pulling back slightly, I examine his face. With one finger I trace the sharp angle of his jaw, delighting in the soft rasp of stubble under my skin. His face is so pale even now, as if he had not lived many years under the onslaught of sun and wind on the open plains. Perhaps it is the Black Breath. I pray to Manwë that it is not so, for my thoughts stop in horror if I even try to imagine that. I remind myself that he is strong, and that, as folklore tells us, the hands of a king are the hands of a healer, and Elessar has treated him. He must be well; I cannot live if he lives not.

If those grey eyes were open, I would see such sadness in them, deep as the ocean. He will never forget Boromir's sacrifice on Amon Hen for the Hobbits. He will never stop wishing that he had been there to take those arrows for his beloved elder brother; even I cannot take that pain from him. He will never forget the cruel words of Denethor – oh, how I could curse you, betrayer of the West, for the misery you have wrought, even beyond your grave – of which he told me in a broken whisper in the dark hours of the night. Oh, dearest Faramir, how I wish that I could take more of your pain upon myself, how I wish I could lighten the burdens you bear.

They are here, even now, when he should be at peace. Fine lines crease his forehead, as even his dreams are haunted by the spectres of the past, and old horrors. Yet even below this, I perceive the elvish fairness in his features, for truly he shows the heritage of both races, and a glimmer of the stars, of the grace of Nimrodel, shines in his eyes. I count myself lucky indeed that its rays fall on my face. 

What can he see in a wild maiden of the Riddermark, wind-blasted and battle-hardened, to light this flame of love within him? For although it may seem presumptuous, I do indeed feel that adoring fire burning me, answering that which is within my heart. 

He sighs slightly in his sleep, twisting into my embrace. I find my head pillowed on his chest, listening to the reassuringly steady rhythm of his breathing. It is so easy, so natural to lie here, entangled in his limbs, one arm around his lean hips, as if we were the last living beings in Arda. For a moment I indulge the fantasy that we can remain here forever, ignoring all the turmoil of Middle-earth. Of course it cannot be so, but still, 'tis a nice thought that I might always be here, in this bed, to be entertained by his shy smile, his grave voice and his agile hands.

Why do I love him so? He is comely among men, tall and straight as a spear, with all the conventional signs of attractiveness, but that would not be enough to penetrate this façade of stone I carefully built over so many years. I believe 'twas his gentle dignity, the sense of a keen mind behind the shield of a great warrior, which captured my heart in the gardens of Minas Tirith. I have seen many men of all races: of Rohan, of Gondor, of the North, and even Elves, but none has touched my heart as he does. But beyond that I cannot say, for I know only that I love him in truth, as if my heart would be ripped in two if we were parted. That is enough for me; I pray that it is enough for him. 

The first faint light of Ithilien is filtering into the room now, picking out the details of the furniture and shining on his hair. It warms my face as I lie in the beam spilling across our bed, and his eyelids flicker slightly, his eyes finally focusing upon me. His hands, still relaxed with sleep, stroke my back, tangling in the hair at the base of my neck to pull me in for a languorous kiss.

"Why were you staring at me?" Faramir murmurs against my lips.

"You were snoring," I tease, although my arms remain locked around his hips.

"I do not snore." My husband pretends to look affronted, but his mouth twitches in an irrepressible grin.

"How would you know that?" He struggles for an answer which is inoffensive, and I take the opportunity to kiss him again, savouring the flickering of his tongue against mine, the way his mouth tastes.

He retreats a little, only to bend his head to suckle at my breasts.

"Dare you say that I snore now?" He looks up under his lashes with a wicked gleam in the depths of his eyes.

"You woke me with your snoring," I persist, despite my giggles and the warmth pooling within me.

"Well, I should repair the offence I have given to my lady."

I am breathless now, for he has moved until he lies fully atop me, cupping my head between his hands.

"Indeed, 'tis not such a horror to be awoken to your face…"

His eyes light with pleasure.

"Nevertheless, I feel the need to prove my repentance." He shifts until I can feel his erection pressing against my thigh, and a shiver of pleasure runs through me.

"Show me, Faramir, my love," I plead, suddenly finding the linen too constricting and casting it from our bodies. My fingers trail over his torso, tracing the paths of old scars. I lower my mouth to one, kissing the slightly puckered line down his stomach. It must have been a horrific wound, and once again I wonder at his strength to survive this and so many others. He hisses between his teeth, and I withdraw instantly.

"I apologise. Did I hurt you?"

"Nay." His voice is shaky. "'Tis just that that is sensitive…"

An idea dawns in my mind, and I duck my head to kiss the battle scar, lavishing the entire length with the attentions of my tongue. Faramir groans and arches into my touch, his hands gliding across my back, slipping around to catch the delicate skin of my breasts. There is no part of me that is not on fire, yearning for him, desperate for this act. 

Slowly he disentangles himself from my embrace, propping himself on his elbows. His clever hands creep lower and lower, wielding their inevitable magic on my body, until I grip his head to myself, afloat with pleasure, my breathing harsh and ragged. He sighs as pleasure wracks me and, moving upwards to capture my mouth, enters me with a swift stroke which seems entirely in tune with my own desire.

His precise movements become more and more frenzied, and I urge him on with my hands on his back and lips on his neck, heat building within me once more. This time, his release and mine come at the same moment, and we shout in pleasure, our voices melding as our bodies did.

Faramir collapses on top of me, and I revel in the pounding of his heart next to mine, the delicious sensation of his slicked skin against me. His face is so close that I can see the golden flecks in his grey eyes, like falling glints of sunlight on the plains.

"Good morning, my beloved." I am amazed that my tone can possibly convey the depth of affection I feel for this man.

"Good morning indeed." His voice is husky with emotion, and I wonder what lurks behind those fathomless eyes.

We lie there, cradled in each other's arms, the sheets wrapped round our feet, until I lift my head and look at my husband with sudden seriousness, remembering why I awoke so early. I wonder what his response to this will be.

"Faramir?"

"Yes?" he murmurs, lazy with satiation.

"I must tell you something."

He sits up, propping his back against the ornate headboard.

"What ails you?" His features register great worry.

"Nothing, I hope." Words fail as nervousness floods through me. "I …I …"

Dear gods, this is harder than facing the witch-king.

"I believe I am with child."

Faramir gazes at me in astonishment, then a wide grin splits his face and he kisses my forehead almost reverently.

"Are you sure?"

"No, but there have been changes, and I feel it…"

He cuts me off, pressing his lips gently to mine, barely touching them. Opening my eyes, I see his are blackened with emotion, suffused with joy.

He lies back on the pillows, one hand resting lightly on my stomach, his thumb making deft circles, testing the skin for signs of the growing child. A lock of my hair shines around his finger like the gold ring on his other hand.

"Are you pleased?" he asks in concern, and I bury my head in his neck.

"Yes. Are you?" I feel certain, but I desire to _know_ that he feels as I do.

"Is it not obvious?" he whispers. "I love you more than life; you are my salvation. I am overjoyed that you bear our child."

I laugh, a wild, delighted sound, and kiss him again heartily, gripping his shoulder.

He peels my hands from his body tenderly.

"Be careful. I do not wish to harm the child."

"'Tis too early; aside from that, a kiss will not hurt her, my beloved."

"You are so sure 'tis a girl?" he laughs.

"Is not every mother?"

He smiles into the crook of my neck, and I feel his lips fasten upon my ear.

"Thank you," he breathes. "Thank you for giving me this. Thank you for being by my side. Thank you for your love."

"How could I not feel thus? You are my everything," I reply, hoarse with emotion. "I love you."

"And I love you."

Together we fall asleep, basking in the light of the dawn, replete with joys both old and new.


End file.
